


Petit

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, M/M, mild ageplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Mallory enjoys playing dress-up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petit

**Author's Note:**

> Another short one inspired by Mimi, the only person I know who can discuss which brand of Lolita Fashion Q would prefer with me with a straight face.

Mr. Mallory wears French cuffs.  It’s meticulous; he says it shows a modicum of self-awareness that’s not often present these days.  An interest in presentation, he says as he takes in Q’s rumpled jumper and the creased lump of his trousers where they’ve been abandoned on the floor.  Q would pick them up, would fold them under Mr. Mallory’s imperious gaze, but that’s for later.  He leaves them where they lie.

But it’s a level of care Mr. Mallory shows in every aspect of his life: not a hair out of place, not a button undone, not a single wrinkle where one ought not be one.  Q admires that.  And Mr. Mallory’s taken an interest in him, wants to show him just how good it can feel to have a routine.  How much more he can accomplish when he sets a goal for himself and achieves it in tiny flawless steps that add to a perfectly-executed whole.  It’s the details that matter, the pins and the stitches no one will ever see but don’t work if they’re not razor-straight.

He’d be embarrassed, he thinks, standing here in Mr. Mallory’s office without even a scrap to cover himself, if the attention weren’t so fatherly.  The first time his knees had knocked together and he’d gone limp and shy with nerves, but the room is cozy and warm and smells of tea; it’s well after hours.  They might be the only ones on this floor, and he’s already looped the tapes.  Mr. Mallory offers him the neat stack of muslin and he sorts it to find the first piece—it’s a test, of course.  He’s to be careful and precise; it’s not just a matter of sorting through the clothing to put them on in the right order, he must do so while showing the utmost respect for the clothes, and by extension Mr. Mallory, that he possibly can.

First is the chemise.  There’s a cool breeze in the room, bringing his nipples to stiff pink peaks against his white skin.  The chemise imitates this, pale, thin fabric tucked and frilled and delicately edged in lace and ribbon so sweetly pink it’s barely more than a blush.  Mr. Mallory’s knuckles nip against his sternum as he does up each mother of pearl button; in just this vest, Q feels almost more naked than he did with nothing on.  Mr. Mallory raises an elegant eyebrow and his skin goes hot, embarrassed at his own excitement. 

Next are the stockings.  He’d thought the pants, at first, offering them every time until Mr. Mallory had threatened to spank the willfulness out of him; upon admitting his ignorance, Mr. Mallory’s frustration had melted into fond exasperation.  How would the stockings fit under the pants if they weren’t on first? he’d asked, showing Q the tiny row of buttons across the top of the stockings.  There were matching holes in the legs of the pants; once the pants went on, they’d line up with the buttons already there and cover seamlessly, but the buttons clearly went on the inside.  Q offers the stockings now and Mr. Mallory smiles, calling him a good boy. 

Mr. Mallory takes his left leg first, humming with appreciation over the smoothness of the calf.  It is Q’s responsibility to shave; dark hair shows through sheer white in a truly unattractive way, so he takes care not to let it.  Mr. Mallory likes him bare—says it shows initiative.  The stockings are soft, sleek and delicate as Mr. Mallory rolls them up.  His fingers pluck here and there to get more stretch, more height, until they’re all the way up high on his thighs.  This is Q’s least favorite part.  It feels like he’s on display, like someone has hung a dark frame around his cock and put it out for looking at, surrounded by virgin white and tender skin.  Mr. Mallory almost always stops here and takes a moment to enjoy the work.  There’ve been times when they’ve made it no father before he’s sinking to his knees in the well of the desk, Mr. Mallory’s cock fat and wet in his mouth as he sucks, contented.

That’s not for today, at least not yet.  Mr. Mallory hands him the pants—bloomers, really: a little scrap of lace and ribbons and bows that puff over his bum and around his thighs—and watches him shimmy them up.  He does the buttons himself; Q’s never found them in the froth of white lace that balloons from each leg hole, but Mr. Mallory’s fingertips are warm and gentle on his inner thigh as he seeks them out unerringly, until Q can feel the pull of the stockings threatening to slip everything down before he tightens the ribbons at the waist.  He’s covered now, from collarbone to toe in snowy cotton, already wearing more than many a modern girl, but there’s a reason he’s here and not a modern girl: he’s Mr. Mallory’s sweet thing, his pretty doll, so biddable and pliable and soft. 

Mr. Mallory holds the petticoat open for him to step into.  The net scratches a little, the itch dampened by the bloomers and the stockings.  He used to worry that the petticoat made his arse look fat, bowing out as it does in a bell from his waist, until Mr. Mallory had shown him: the shape of the skirt makes him look long and thin, waist tiny and legs impossibly slender where they emerge from the cascade of ruffle and net.  Its demure length hits him just an inch or two above the knee, emphasizing the narrow curves of his leg which grows more petite and precious with each layer of pure white that’s added.  A white blouse that’s a flurry of pintucks and ribbons tops it off, and then an underskirt of ruffles and tiered lace; he’s starting to resemble an elaborate Victorian doll.

Q lifts his arms obediently as Mr. Mallory lowers the dress over his head.  The laces are loose; Mr. Mallory puts a hand between his shoulders as he draws them tight.  Q can hear the ribbon creak as it slides through the loops.  When it’s snug, Mr. Mallory gently buttons on the bow into place.  Q’s all dressed but for the shoes and headpiece that’s sitting on the desk by itself.  He thinks it’s probably not a shoes and headpiece night, but Mr. Mallory falls to his knees, eyes wide and full of awe.  He touches Q’s ankle, his knee, his instep and guides one stockinged foot into his lap as he picks up the pretty white shoe.  The heel is thick and clunky; Q doesn’t want to wear it tonight.  He flexes his toes and watches Mr. Mallory freeze.  He's hard.

“You’ll be the death of me.”  Mr. Mallory’s voice cracks.  Q smiles.

“Sir.”


End file.
